Ray was sitting in a corner, sharpening his new makeshift shiv. The doctors had removed the alien shard of orange shrapnel from his arm, and told him they were amazed that he hadn't lost his entire arm. Ray decided to hold onto the piece of shrapnel, first as a memento, but then chose to put it to a more practical use. He had first taken the remains of his torn shirt for a handle, then added the leather from a belt he stole from a deceased patient. A piece of plastic was the crossguard, held in place by superglue. The blade was jagged and wicked looking, and surprisingly sharp. 

His parents were missing, but Ray wasn't surprised with all the chaos going on. They weren't in the morgue, which was something. He hoped they were okay, and he hoped that he'd live through this madness too. To keep himself occupied, he worked on his knife. The more he thought about improving his weapon, the less he worried about his family, his friends, himself, or about humanity as a whole.

The fighting grew in volume, and Ray hissed as he turned; he accidentally cut his finger on the orange blade. "Damn this thing is sharp. At least we don't have to fight them unarmed." He chuckled nervously, wondering what good a stupid knife would do against an alien with whatever crazy ray-gun they had.